


Der Junge, Der Rennt

by neednot



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, So much angst, for txf-fic-chicks challenge, post-unruhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:01:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neednot/pseuds/neednot
Summary: If Schnauz had taken a photo of him, what would he have seen? His own fears spelled out in print? Worse, his own desires? His want for her? His fear of losing her?





	

He shows up at her apartment without prompting. He has never done this; when he does show up he always calls beforehand. He tells himself it’s to check on her. Because she was kidnapped. Because she needs him.

(He’s afraid she doesn’t need him.)

He will never forgive himself, not for this. They had him right there, in plain sight, they were talking to him and he—

He let her go.

(That is his greatest fear. Letting her go.)

When she opens the door he can tell she’s not surprised at this late-evening intrusion. Worry lines form between her eyebrows, and he wants to reach out with his thumb and smooth them away, gather her close because he could have lost her today.

“Mulder,” she says, and he can’t tell if it’s relief or want or exasperation in her tone. Her cross necklace glints in the faint light from the hallway, nestled between her collarbones.

“Can I come in?” he asks, and she doesn’t look at him, pushes her glasses further up her nose. But she steps back, she lets him in.

He feels awkward, standing in her doorway, though he’s done it so many times before. Something between them is different and for a moment he regrets coming here unannounced, for a moment he contemplates turning around and leaving.

As if she can sense what he’s thinking she heads towards her kitchen, motions for him to head into the living room. He does, standing by her couch with his hands shoved in his pockets awkwardly, looking around. Her laptop is still open, and he can see those photos stacked by her computer, evidence to finish her report.

If Schnauz had taken a photo of him, what would he have seen? His own fears spelled out in print? Worse, his own desires? His want for her? His fear of losing her?

She returns with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, setting them down on the coffee table. She catches his eye, motions her head towards the photos.

“I can’t explain them,” she says. “And don’t—I don’t want to hear about psychic photography right now.”

“What else could it be?” he says, taking a glass of whiskey. She sighs and pours herself a glass, sitting on her couch.

“You don’t believe that,” she says. “What Schnauz said. About howlers. Mulder, we create our own monsters—there’s nothing wrong with those women, nothing to save them from. There was nothing troubling us, there was just… something wrong with Schnauz.”

“What did he think was troubling you?” Mulder asks.

She quirks an eyebrow and takes a sip of whiskey, a gesture he’s so familiar with. “You don’t seriously believe that.”

He doesn’t respond. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, takes another sip.

“Mulder, he was a sick man who used fantasies to cope. I’m not troubled. I have no unrest.” Her voice goes quiet on the last words. She brings her knees to her chest.

What isn’t she telling him?

(Here is what she is not telling him: the nose bleeds, the headaches, the fatigue. She is tired, she is run down, the air is dry and he doesn’t need to worry about her more than he already is right now.)

“You think he was a sick man?”

He uses fantasies to cope. That statement could describe him.

_Do you think I am a sick man?_

She must sense the meaning, because she turns away. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says.

“I came to check on you.”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she says. “Alles in ordnung. Everything’s okay.”

But he doesn’t believe her.

“Scully…”

“You should go,” she says, standing abruptly. “I… I’m tired. I want to sleep, after today.”

He nods. “Okay. Yeah. I should.” He sets his glass down on her coffee table. She doesn’t stop him.

_Do you think I am a sick man?_

_What’s troubling you?_

He wants to ask but he doesn’t. Wants to hold her but he doesn’t. Wants to kiss her but doesn’t.

She hides her face from him when he leaves so he doesn’t see the blood on her face. She should tell him but doesn’t. Should ask him to stay but doesn’t.

Alles in ordnung. Everything is fine.


End file.
